


Sexy, Soulless, Incendiary

by Annabelle_W



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, First Time, M/M, Omega Dean, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Season/Series 06, Smoking, Soulless Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-04-06 07:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19057840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annabelle_W/pseuds/Annabelle_W
Summary: Dean has been hiding his designation since the day he presented.  He's never felt like an omega, anyway:  he's as tall as an alpha, he'd rather protect than be protected, he prefers fast cars to fashion, and he's never been attracted to an alpha (especially not a male alpha).At least, not until the soulless version of his brother slinks into his life.And decides to seduce him.





	1. Epiphany

**Author's Note:**

> I've always been fascinated by Soulless Sam. Why is he so determined to stay close to Dean--and keep Dean close to him--when he is unable to care about him? Working to please Dean is exhausting and must seem illogical to a being incapable of emotions, but he does it anyway. It's intriguingly contradictory.

Sam's POV

2007

Dean twitches in his sleep, fists clenching, frown lines wavering, breath catching. Dreams morphing into nightmares, looks like. Small wonder when he has only a year left on this ungrateful earth. Make that ten months.

I gulp a mouthful of whiskey, grimace.

No. I WILL get him out of this deal. I have to.

A tear beads under Dean's closed eyelashes, glides down his face, drips onto his pillow.

Two seconds later, I'm bending over him, drying his cheeks, murmuring soothing bits of nothing. He sighs, adjusts his position without wakening, settles into a more peaceful sleep. I hover, smoothing his hair, his sleep shirt. Truthfully, I should sleep, too. But, every time I try, I start to wonder if I'm wasting the last moments I have with my brother and I start to toss and turn until I give up, get up. Find a drink, search for a case, distract myself with puppy videos.

"Sammy," Dean mutters. A smile curves his lips.

I smile back (even though he can't see). An impulse has me leaning forward to press a kiss onto his forehead. Subconsciously, I breathe in, mentally catalog his collection of smells: inexpensive shampoo, alpha musk, cologne, gun oil. Omega?

Must be the residual scent of a recent hook-up. 

And, wow. It's rare that Dean and I are attracted to the same people, but I think this might have been an exception. In fact--I blink rapidly--I suspect I would not have been able to tear myself away from her at the end of the night.

Maybe it's good that I wasn't the one to meet her.

And I really should not be scenting my own brother. Really shouldn't.

2010

Does Dean ever sleep quietly? He's always shuffling around, snoring, mumbling. When he isn't flinging himself about, screaming, because of some nightmare. How I ever got any rest sharing a room with him is a mystery.

When I still needed rest. Sleep. Eight hours. Four hours, more like.

When I had a soul.

Knowing I lack one explains so much that should have perturbed me--including the fact that it didn't. Why I don't sleep, why I don't feel any deep emotions, why there's an emptiness inside of me.

Why I'm indifferent to my brother's suffering.

*

Dean downs shot after shot. If he keeps this up, he's going to have liver disease by the time he's forty.

I yawn.

A beta woman in a pink shirt smiles at me. I cock my head, considering. She's certainly cute, might be good for an hour or so of entertainment.

"Dude, seriously?" Dean, not as drunk as I thought, glares at me. "You're supposed to be hanging out with me, not looking for something to stick your knot in."

I nod. "You're right. I agreed to spend the evening with you." Maybe she'll want to meet me later, in two, make that three hours? What is Dean's alcohol tolerance these days?

He reads my mind. "No. You're not sneaking off once I'm asleep." He shakes his head, chugs another beer, followed by yet another shot.

It really bothers him that I'm not "his" Sam.

Eventually, he'll grow to hate me for it. Then, he'll leave me or kill me. Both of those should not fill me with dread. In fact, neither should. I'm incapable of feeling any love for Dean, so why am I having an emotional response to the prospect of being separated from him?

Come to think of it, I've been attempting to remain at Dean's side since my return. Stalking him during his year with Lisa, tempting him back into hunting, altering my behavior to please him so he'll stay with me . . .

Huh.

Well, I'll just have to make sure he does stay with me.

*

Maybe I could seduce him.

I'm really not attracted to other alphas--not even when I just want to feel SOMEthing and go looking for sex--but I'm sure I could manage. I study my sleeping brother. Long eyelashes, full lips, high cheekbones. He's pretty, even beautiful. I would just have to plug my nose to keep out the unappealing alpha reek.

Wait. No. Even if I could stomach it, there's no way Dean would sleep with another alpha. Especially not a male one. He only goes for beta and omega girls.

Oh, well. 

Hmm. He's sleeping really heavily. (All that alcohol). Now might be good time to snoop through his duffel. See if I can find some way to keep him by my side.

I sneak another glance at him. He rolls over, snoring so loudly the neighbors probably wonder if there's a drone nearby. Yeah. He won't be aware of his surroundings until he's drunk three cups of coffee after waking up around noon.

I unzip his bag so quickly it nearly tears.

Busty Asian Beauties. Pungent cologne. Black tee shirts. Flannel. Black boxer briefs. Socks. Shower bag. Ooh, here we go. A hidden compartment.

I open it carefully, after checking on Dean's slumbering status once more.

Three pill bottles. A spray bottle. A flat box. A thin pile of pages.

I frown. Perplexing.

I pick up the spray bottle. It looks like cologne but why would Dean keep it secret? Does he have a perfume fetish I don't know about? I suppress a snort, examine the label. Authentic Alpha Musk. A sniff proves the advertising accurate. But no alpha would possess such a thing.

I grab the pills. They must be scent blockers. To hide my brother's beta status. Maybe I could blackmail him. Force him to stay with me that way.

But only one bottle contains blockers. The other two are far more interesting. Birth control. And heat suppressants--the long-term kind used primarily by single, working omegas that makes their heats mild, manageable instead of stopping them altogether. The kind that omegas can stay on for years, even decades, without suffering any negative health affects.

My eyes widen.

I snatch up the box. Absorbent plugs designed to prevent omega males from leaking slick. Advertised as comfortable and discrete. No stained clothing. No sneaky pheromones bringing unwanted attention from alphas.

And finally, the pages. All ripped from magazines. Some fairly old, some very recent. All featuring alpha males. Clint Eastwood in The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. Doctor Sexy. Christian Bale's Batman. An early nineties cigarette ad showcasing a topless cowboy. An ad for Tombstone. One for Brokeback Mountain. I remember teasing Dean about going to see that. He replied "I don't care if a couple of alpha males get it on, but I don't want to see that." Guess he was lying.

I carefully replace everything, sit back on my heels.

Dean is an omega.

My braggart, posturing older brother is a needy little omega.

Guess seduction isn't off the table after all.

My lips curl into a grin.


	2. Breathless

Dean's POV

1997

I drop the empty beer bottle next to all the other empties, light a fresh cigarette, lean my head against the wall, closing my eyes.

Yes, I'm wallowing.

I'm entitled to a good wallow. Because I'm eighteen years old and I have no knot. Which means I will never have a knot. The very few recorded instances of alphas presenting after seventeen (omegas are a different matter) all involve situations of delayed puberty. The most famous being a gymnast who popped a knot at the age of twenty-one after winning a gold medal in the beta women's division of the Olympics. Now she's out there winning medals for the alpha division.

Whatever. Not relevant to my life. No puberty delays here.

I laugh bitterly. 

All I wanted was to grow up like my dad. Was that really too much to ask?

Speaking of, here's John now.

I take another drag instead of stubbing out and hiding my smoke like I normally would when spotting my father. Not that he's actually unaware of my habit, but we mutually pretend it doesn't exist so we won't have to talk about it. The Winchester way. (Or maybe the Dean and John way--Sam has no compunction about lecturing me on the dangers of smoking. As if I somehow missed the constant lessons on the topic at school.)

Whatever. The one positive about turning eighteen is that no one can stop me from indulging in my nicotine addiction. Hello, freedom!

John merely raises an eyebrow at my cig before plopping down on the dirty concrete beside me. "Figured I'd find you here."

He noticed that I always choose the side of our motel du jour furthest from our room to smoke? Of course he did.

"Son, listen to me," he drops a strong, weathered hand on my shoulder. "I know you're disappointed you didn't present."

I snort.

He adds, "But I wanted to tell you that I'm not."

I stare at him. The great John Winchester, hunter extraordinaire, isn't disappointed that his son failed to present as an alpha?

He smiles, a bit sadly. "Your mother was a beta. And M-Mary" his voice catches on her name, like it always does "was the bravest, most incredible person I ever knew. I'm proud you're like her. You even look like her." A tear beads in his left eye.

I feel a matching droplet form in mine.

1999

"Seriously?" Sam glares at his lap. "Today?!"

I peer sleepily at him. "What are you griping about at" I glance at my watch, blink until the numbers stop swirling through my exhausted eyes "Six-thirty on a Saturday morning?"

That glare shifts to me, lasers into my stinging eyes. "Can't you smell it?"

"Smell what?" I rub my face. I start to grumble, "Beta here, remember?" before I recall my brother thinks I'm an alpha. (I didn't lie to him. I just never corrected his assumption about my designation). Sam's sense of smell has been intensifying lately, to the point where it nearly matches that of our alpha father, and what he, presumably, thinks mine is. That olfactory sensitivity will happen once . . . . Oh. "You presented." He must have woken up with a knot.

"Yeah." Sam hops up, starts pacing. "Why couldn't it have waited a day?" His eyes flash from hazel to red, reminding me a bit of a traffic light. His words slur occasionally when his new fangs get in the way--it will take him a few days to have complete control over them.

I give up on sleeping, head for the coffee maker. "What is happening today that is so important?"

Sam pulls his hair in frustration. "I was going to take the SAT!"

Oh. No way should pheromone-riddled Sam spend the morning cooped up in a building full of hormonal teenagers trying to concentrate on the exam that will (might) determine the course of their lives. Probably the administrators would take a whiff of him and send him home anyway. Still. "Isn't that next year?--And why do you need to take it anyway?"

I'd be immolated if those scarlet eyes transformed into the lasers they resemble. "I need to know which areas need more study. Plus, if I do well enough, I won't have to take it again. Not that it matters now." He kicks an empty beer can across the room. "Stupid hormones!"

I roll my eyes. Guess physical maturity doesn't transfer to mental.

The door slams open. "Hey, boys." Dad marches in, smelling of gunpowder, smoke, and unwashed alpha. 

I wrinkle my nose. It must be rank if it's bothering weak beta me. "Hi, dad." I straighten my posture.

John ignores me in favor of sniffing the air. His eyes light up, seek out Sam. "If it isn't the newest alpha in the family! Congratulations, son." He glances briefly at me. "Pack up. We're heading out. Hunt in Oregon."

My eyes drop. "Yes, sir." It hits me that my beta status would have bothered him if it hadn't made my resemblance to Mary more acute. 

A muttering echo as Sam also acquiesces. "It's not like I could do anything else," he adds below his breath, as he pushes past me on the way to the door.

His scent hits me at the same time as his shoulder. Mint. Leather. Old books. And overpoweringly more, the distinct ripeness of young, virile alpha.

I gasp. Something clenches deep within me. The room spins, the zipping furniture winking yellow instead of the tired grey-blue it was a moment ago. My damp boxers stick to my thighs. My neck tilts submissively.

No.

I run to the bathroom, grabbing my duffel along the way. With shaking hands, I pull out my secret, expensive alpha musk, douse myself. I take a deep breath as I replace the bottle, ponder my situation. My body must have started turning omega around the time Sam began to develop alpha characteristics, a couple months ago--not that his designation was ever in doubt, but it's imminent arrival became obvious when shyness turned to confidence, even aggression; when omegas and girls sidled up to him at the barest excuse; when his growth spurt hit, sending his height zooming upwards. My body must have reacted to the prospect of being surrounded by two very dominant alphas. A beta would be swallowed by the force of their personalities, but an omega could wind them around his fingers.

If he wanted to. Which I don't.

I'll keep the respect owed an alpha over the adoration given to an omega, thank you.

I stumble over to the door, open it a crack.

Dad snaps. "Stop primping and get out here! We have to hit the road."

"Think I'm going to have to sit this one out," I reply. "I'm feverish and dizzy and nauseous." Not a lie. My first heat will hit full force within two hours, likely sooner, and I'm already feeling the effects.

John's hard visage softens. "I can see that. Get some rest. Drink plenty of water. We'll be back for you in a week or so."

That means I have at least two weeks--plenty of time to survive my heat and make preparations to hide my omega status, even and especially from those closest to me.

2010

The rapid clicking, tapping wake me up. I peer blearily around my pillows. Sam perches on the comforter of his unused bed, long legs stretched in front of him as he types, scrolls, reads, studies on his laptop.

"Oh, good, you're awake," he comments, no inflection in his voice. He stands up, calmly detailing all the facts about our currant case he learned from a night spent researching instead of sleeping.

I attempt to follow his reasoning but my caffeine-deprived brain barely recognizes the individual words.

A pause. Hazel eyes coolly appraise me. "Warm in here," Sam observes. He reaches back, pulls off both his red flannel and black tee shirt in one fluid movement. Revealing a long torso of lean, tanned muscle. 

My mouth drops. Weariness drops along with it. Once again I'm reminded that the man before me might look like my brother, but he really isn't Sam. The real Sam--my Sam--was a bit insecure about his body. A holdover, I suspect, from his torment at the hands of bullies who made certain he was aware that his preadolescent body was short, chubby, and pimply. He worked out obsessively and ate far too much rabbit food but rarely wore fewer than two layers. And he always changed in the bathroom.

The glorious sight before me should not be hidden.

Soulless raises an eyebrow at my slack-jawed expression. I scramble for an explanation for my reaction, come up with: "You planning to audition for Wolverine?"

He smirks. "Working out passes the time when you're asleep." He reaches into his back pocket, muscles rippling, proves he really isn't my brother by pulling out a pack of Camels and lighting one. He leans back against the counter of the kitchenette, inhales deeply, lips curved around the stick.

I half expect him to cough, but he doesn't. Of course, he doesn't. He releases the smoke in a long, practiced, curling stream.

My heart rate ticks up. 

A feral spark of crimson ignites hazel orbs. "Want one?" He tosses the pack to me.

I shake my head, even though the honest truth is that I really, really do. I haven't smoked in years but I've never stopped missing the sensation of nicotine-laced smoke in my lungs. I trace the colorful, psychedelic design on the pack with my finger. I remember once teasing teenage Sam that if he ever picked up the habit, he would smoke sissy Camels. Strange to think he did.

A shadow falls over me. "Maybe you'll like another way." Sam's sultry murmur raises goosebumps up and down my arms. After an amused half-smile, he drags on his smoke, bends over me, presses his lips to mine, blows into my mouth.

I breathe in. The mix of smoke and alpha pheromones swirls through me, befuddling me. I blink up at my brother who is not my brother. So intoxicatingly handsome.

Teasing fingertips trail down my arm to where the pack is clutched forgotten in my hand. He slowly, slowly removes it, our hands brushing, rubbing against each other. All my attention focuses on that small amount of skin connection. 

I forget how to breathe.

"On second thought, I don't think smoking is for me. You keep them." The fingers withdraw tantalizingly leisurely. 

I open my eyes. (When did I close them?)

He stubs out his cig on the plastic No Smoking sign perched on the bedside table. Winks.

*

Dim afternoon light bleeds through the dirty curtains of Bobby's living room. I'm trying to research, I really am, but Sam's wearing cowboy boots. Actual cowboy boots. Where he got them, I don't know. I wonder if they had to be special-ordered; his feet are so big.

I blink at the page before me, but the letters refuse to coalesce into comprehensible words, let alone sentences, paragraphs. Concepts. 

Doctor Sexy has nothing on my brother.

Come on, brain, this is important. Capital-A Alphas were the first of each variety of monster. The forefathers. They . . . . Long, denim-clad legs, stretched out impossibly far past his chair, folded at the ankle. And below the ragged hem, those boots. What is it about cowboy boots that make an attractive man unbearably sexy?

Especially since I normally don't find men attractive at all. Except during my (mild, thanks to my suppressants) heats. Not too mention the fact that this is my brother. Well. In form anyway. And what a form it is . . . .

I need some air.

*

Sometimes I wish I stayed the beta I thought I was for two and a half years until my presentation at twenty. Okay most of the time. But, at the moment, I could do without my omega's sudden inconvenient interest in Soulless Sam. Sure, he's gorgeous and sexy and dominating and dangerous. But real Sam was all of that. And I never got wet for him. Mostly never.

I need a distraction.

The part of my brain that irrationally longs for a return to nicotine addiction helpfully reminds me of the pack of Camels burning a hole in my jacket pocket. Why did I keep them? I should have thrown them away. Or helpfully given them to a smoker. Or. Anyway, they're the wrong brand.

Doesn't matter. Same wonderfully (horribly) addictive chemicals.

I should go back inside.

Sam is in there, wearing those boots. And, temptingly, absent a moral code.

Smoking it is. Definitely the less destructively unhealthy option.

I have a cigarette between my lips in a record low number of seconds. I fumble with the lighter.

"Allow me." Sam's smooth baritone slides into my awareness. He gently removes the lighter from my now nerveless fingers, ignites it, presses the flame to the tip of my smoke.

I inhale, stare up into enigmatic, beautiful, eyes. 

Huge hands frame my face, a warm forehead touches mine.

"Since when do you smoke?" Bobby's gruff voice. When did he come out here?

Sam steps away from me, responds coolly, disinterestedly. "He started sneaking smokes when he was twelve. He was up to a pack a day by the time he turned fifteen. Then he quit, but he seems to have started again."

Bobby frowns, a grimace of distaste traveling across his bearded face. "But you don't, right?"

"Not normally." Sam winks at me, saunters away through the field of disemboweled cars, hand in his pockets.

Bobby turns back to me. "Son, I don't care if you pollute your lungs, as long as you don't do it inside my house." His eyebrows meet. "Well, I do care. But your brother won't like it if he, or his soul, I guess, comes back from Hell to find you're addicted again. He's the reason you quit, isn't he?"

I nod, realize I've absentmindedly been smoking this whole time. I'm nearly finished.

It should not be so easy to get caught up in something so bad for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually think smoking is really disgusting (especially since I have asthma, so being in the presence of a smoker literally endangers my life). But, well, there are many things I normally find unappealing that become sexy when the Winchesters are involved. Incest comes to mind.


	3. a bout de souffle

Dean's POV

2005

Sam climbs into the car, sniffs the air, and promptly rolls down the window. "Okay, rule one," he says, disgust etched across his face, "If I'm coming with you, you're going to have to stop smoking in here and anywhere around me. I don't want to return to Jess reeking like a cheap bar."

I roll my eyes. "Fine. I'll quit for the weekend. Any other requirements, princess?"

Alpha irritation wafts pungently around the interior of my vehicle. "Let's just . . . get this over with." He crosses his arms, stares out the window.

I turn on the radio to drown out the two sides of my omega nature warring on each other--one side wants to appease the disgruntled alpha, wants to see him smile; the other (bizarrely) keeps fixating on Sam kissing his gorgeous beta girlfriend, wants him to return to her smelling like, well, like me.

Three days later, Sam does reek of smoke--smoke from the fire that killed Jess. His eyes morph rapidly from furious alpha red to mourning, drowning hazel-grey and back again.

My protective instincts rear up. I must keep my brother beside me so he doesn't either kill himself by his own hand or by single-handedly going up against the yellow-eyed demon. I won't change who I am for him (or any alpha) but becoming a nonsmoker seems a small price to pay to ensure he stays with me.

Besides, lots of girls prefer men who don't smoke.

2009

Lisa regards me nervously after putting Ben to bed. She bites her lip. "Listen," she says, "I want you to stay here. Ben wants you here. And I think it would be good for you, too. You need someone; you need us."

"But?" I ask. Since she's clearly leading to one.

She sighs, looks at her hands. "Ben looks up to you and he's at a very impressionable age." Brown eyes meet mine. "I don't want to impose rules on you, but in this case . . . ." Delicate features harden, sweet omega scent deepens to a strong woodsy smell. "Don't smoke around my son."

I take her hand. "Not a problem. I quit years ago."

She smiles. A moment later, she's in my lap, lips moving against mine.

2010

Gentle, tingling, moist, arousing pressure traveling down my spine. Lips, I realize as I slowly awaken, lips pressing against my back. Not Lisa's--not soft enough. These lips are bit harder, more insistent than hers ever were. And. What's causing that tickling sensation spreading heat through my entire body, hardening me, encouraging my body to produce so much slick that my absorbent plug is on the verge of falling out?

Another kiss. I fail to suppress my gasping moan.

A low chuckle rumbles above me.

A very masculine chuckle.

I freeze. That incredible, almost agonizingly intense, evocative sensation was created by stubble brushing lightly against my skin.

Sam's stubble.

I shove against him, knocking my soulless brother over in the process of leaping to my feet. He merely lounges on the floor laughing as I scramble into my shirts, jacket, and boots (luckily my jeans were still on, though I wonder how much longer they would have been if . . . . Nope, not going there).

I stomp out of our motel room, wincing at the unforgiving glare of the morning sun. Coffee is in order. But first . . . . I reach into my jacket pocket, grab the crumpled box, give it a shake. Empty. How? Did I really smoke all of those? Already? I did. Of course I did.

I angrily slug the empty pack across the parking lot before slamming my way back into our room.

Sam raises an eyebrow. "All out?" He rises smoothly to his feet. "We could get more."

I march over to him, get in his face. "Why do you want me to smoke, anyway?"

Cold, dark, empty eyes glint. He presses closer to me, his groin nearly touching mine. When he speaks, his voice growls at a tone several decibels lower than usual. "Your lips look sexy wrapped around cylindrical objects." A long finger traces those lips, dips into my mouth. "Smoking relaxes you." Huge hands caress my face, shoulders, back, start to move lower, stop when my breath catches. "It gives me excuses to touch you." He brushes our groins together, smirks at my gasping reaction. "I could slide a smoke between you lips." He demonstrates with that finger. I stop myself from sucking on it. "I could light it for you." He cups the back of my neck, with one hand, makes flicking gesture close to my mouth with the other. "I could share the smoke." His lips brush mine.

Fire rages through my body. An early heat, perhaps? My suppressants ensure that my heats are mild: just a week every three months where my temperature's bit higher than usual and I'm a bit (okay, a lot) hornier than usual. My cycle synced with Lisa's while we lived together, but maybe it's changing again. Maybe that's why . . . .

Sam kisses me again. Hot, demanding, overpowering.

The temptation to sink into his embrace floods me. No. I can't. This is my brother. I stumble back, away. "You don't care about the risk of lung cancer?" My voice only wavers a tiny amount.

Sam shrugs. Apparently, he doesn't care about cancer or any of the the smoking-related health risks, although I know for a fact he could name them all. (Teenage Sam gave me whole presentations on the subject). Oh, yeah. Of course, he doesn't care. He's unable to care.

Since he doesn't have a soul.

My head spins.

I need to get away before my instincts take over and I conclude I care as little about Sam's genetic relation to me as he does about the dangers of (my) smoking.

Besides, I prefer girls. I need to remind myself of that as well.

*

Lisa crosses her arms after letting me in her (previously our) house. "I thought I made everything clear over the phone."

"You did. I just." I fish around for a plausible excuse to visit my ex. "Don't I still have some stuff here?"

"Oh." She looks surprised at the question. Likely she assumed I'd never bother to come pick up any of my abandoned belongings. Normally, she'd be right. "I'll just go get them." She returns a couple minutes later with a small box. "I figured you wouldn't care about your toothbrush," she comments, handing it to me.

Sure enough, there's no half-used toothbrush in the cardboard container. I flip swiftly through the contents. Classic rock cds (since Lisa didn't--doesn't--own a tape player. Some tee shirts. A beer stein I bought at an Oktoberfest event we attended. A Christmas ornament Ben made for me. Also. A blue knotted dildo Lisa gifted me with when she discovered my designation. You can't share a bed with someone for months without her realizing that you get wet same as she does and that the omega scent she notices has only one possible origin. (I could trick Sam for years because he never got close enough to notice I don't have exactly the same parts and because he always assumed any omega scent was residual from a recent hook-up. Soulless might have figured things out, though. His behavior lately--). She laughed when she handed me the box, saying this explained why Ben's paternity came from a different dangerous, mysterious man. I didn't bother to mention that our weekend together was months before I presented--long enough that I would still have possessed viable beta sperm. It's not unheard for omega males to father children before presenting, or, in fact, for alpha females to give birth. We're all betas until something external prompts our bodies to alter existing organs or grow whole new ones. I'm still not sure why my body made that decision. Probably Sam's extreme alphaness, which was obvious years before he even started to present . . . .

"You smell like him." Lisa cocks her head, brown eyes serious.

"What?" Is she psychic--How could she possibly know I was thinking about my brother?

"Sam," Lisa clarifies. "You smell like Sam."

"We do travel together," I point out. "I'm sure he smells like me, too."

Raised eyebrows. "I'm sure he does."

I remember, then, what she insinuated when breaking up with me, when she declared that she knew our relationship was over the moment Sam walked back into my life. I give the same answer I always give those who make such assumptions: "We're brothers!"

Her smile is bit sad, a bit sympathetic. "It's okay. I've known for a long time. Even . . . even when we first met. The way you talked about him. So possessive, so adoring."

I shake my head so quickly I make myself dizzy. I mean Soulless Sam has been turning my head lately, but he does that to everyone. So seductive, so alluring, so breathtakingly handsome. Plus, he has no moral compass, so he doesn't, cannot, understand why it's wrong to go after me. And it shouldn't be working on me, anyway. But Sam has always been so attractive, so brilliant, so sweet (real Sam is--was?). 

I take a breath. There's one more thing I need to know. I blink slowly. Once my eyes are completely open, I study the woman before me. She's beautiful, caring, fun, amazing in bed (thanks to her yoga-honed flexibility), delightfully curvy. My interest in women remains undimmed. But I can't recall our bedroom escapades without finding the memories overshadowed by thoughts of Sam's lips, powerful body, dexterous fingers.

That answers that, then. I find my brother more appealing than a sexy woman. And, now that I recognize my feelings, I have for a very long time.

I heave a sigh.

Lisa touches my shoulder. "Go," she orders, softly. "Make up whatever quarrel sent you here. I won't be a rebound again."

*

Hot water pounds against my back. I'm not really sure what to do with my new self-knowledge. I kind of wish I hadn't gone to Lisa's. Maybe ignorance really is bliss. Maybe I should just forget about all of this and concentrate on keeping Soulless Sam on the straight and narrow until I can replace him with my real brother. Even though, in ever so many ways, he is my real brother. His body, his mind . . . .

"Thinking about me?" A blast of cold air accompanies Sam's voice.

I jump, turn around. A very naked Sam just climbed into the shower. With me.

He prowls closer, leans down to press his nose into my neck. "There's that pure omega scent I've been longing to smell." He sucks on the unmarked skin before adding, "You should never have hidden it from me."

I rally my equilibrium. "It wasn't your business." I step away, my back hitting the wall. 

He follows, every inch the predator. Making me his prey. "Of course it was." He drops his hands to my chest, teases my nipples, rubs circles down around my body. "I'm your brother," he growls in ear. His hands slide lower, circle my hole. "And you're mine."

There's double meaning in that, I think vaguely as my eyes fall shut.

As I submit.


	4. Asphyxiated

Dean's POV

2008

Conversation slowly peters out. A four month separation should have left us with plenty to discuss, but only Bobby shares accounts of his summer adventures. Guess in the midst of researching, drinking, and quarreling with Rufus, he took a new hunter under his wing. Kid named Garth. And I really should not be picturing Dana Carvey headbanging to "Bohemian Rhapsody", but better that than remember my head literally being banged against sharp, blistering-hot rocks. Or being stabbed my multiple fire-reddened daggers. Or taking up the blades myself against a woman who sold her soul to heal her cancer-stricken child . . . .

I blink, swallow the vivid, horrific flashbacks.

I open my eyes to find Sam studying me, head cocked, hazel eyes wide and curious. He's cataloging all the changes he finds in my appearance, scent, personality and using them to create a mental spreadsheet labeled "Dean's Hell-Related Problems and How to Solve Them." Not that I'm actually all that different: I look the same (other than that mysterious handprint), I smell the same (luckily the tiny convenience store I came across after climbing from my grave contained all of my favorite suppressants, blockers, concealers), I behave the same (I think. I hope.).

Sam, on the other hand . . . . 

The image of my lanky, sweet-faced, little brother kept me sane, gave me the courage to endure endless torture for thirty years. That dewy-eyed boy is almost entirely absent from the hard, hulking man before me. Was he that muscle-bound before the hellhounds took me? Was his face so angular, so chiseled? And what is so off about his scent? There's a wrong note to it, something sour, harsh. Plus, his shower didn't completely wash away the stink of that tiny brunette omega. Who was that skank and what was Sam doing with her? (Other than the obvious). Please let her just be a nameless one night stand.

I unclench my fists. This shouldn't bother me so much. But, really, he was making time with some girl while I was getting torn apart day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year?

I frown, dropping my gaze from concerned hazel orbs. His powers never let him read minds and they're gone anyway. Right? It still feels like those slightly exotic eyes can see straight into me. That hasn't changed. Neither has his mouth. Full, chapped, pink lips prone to quirking whenever he grows emotional, betraying his feelings. Soft-looking.

A throat clears. I start, turn. Bobby climbs to his feet, says, "I'm going to see about getting a room. Too old for sleeping on couches." Before I can stop him, offer to take the couch myself, he's out the door, muttering something about always feeling like the third wheel.

Sam and I glance at each other, look away.

We just spent several minutes staring silently at each other.

2010

Water dribbles off my body, dampening the bed Sam spread me out on. Anticipation ripples through me, accompanied by doubt, disquiet, guilt. I shouldn't be allowing this, shouldn't want this.

Sam crawls across the bed, prowling over to me, every inch the predator. Glistening sculpted torso, curling wet hair, gleaming scarlet eyes. Clean, heady, alpha musk. I breathe in his scent, gasp, leak slick onto the already moist comforter. 

A chuckle. Filled with amusement but devoid of affection.

Before that thought freezes my libido, a hot mouth descends on mine while a heavy body rolls on top of me, slides between my legs. And something that seems far too big to fit inside nudges against my hole.

My lips fall open. Sam takes advantage, devouring my mouth until I'm reciprocating just as hungrily, winding my arms and legs around him, moaning wantonly.

This is nothing like a beta or omega girl bouncing atop me.

So much more visceral, intense, incredible.

A more insistent nudge. My channel slickens, loosens, opens up to let him in.

My head drops to the pillows.

He's thrusting, playing with my nipples, teasing my groin, sucking on my neck. 

Sensation overload. I can't . . . I can't . . . .

I'm spilling omega seed all over my stomach.

Sam's knot swells, locks. The mouth on my neck opens wider, bites sharply down. Something clicks into place. I'm tied in more ways than one.

I orgasm again.

*

Sam maneuvers me into perching on his lap in an easy, practiced move that reminds me he's been with dozens (at least) of people since returning to the earth without his soul. His knot doesn't even pull against my rim.

He rests one hand beneath his head, grins up at me. "Just as much fun as I imagined. And so much easier than I thought it would be."

My post-coital high fizzles. "Yeah, well, it's been a couple weeks since Lisa broke up with me. I needed to get some." I force a shrug.

He smirks, likely seeing right through me. "Oh. I have something for you." One lazy arm stretches to the bedside table, opens the drawer, pulls out a small box. He hands me an unopened pack of Marlboros. "That's the brand you prefer, right?"

I cough. "Yeah." I've already slept with the soulless monster who looks like my baby brother. What does it matter if I smoke? I allow Sam to light one for me.

He reaches up to run a finger through the sluggishly-bleeding bite mark on my neck. "You're mine, now," he mentions conversationally.

I nod. There's no question about that. And yet . . . .

The man below me bites the inside of his mouth. "I think I'll test it." His eyes crimson, his voice deepens to an imposing growl. "Never hide your status again. I want everyone to know you're an omega. My omega."

I jolt as his alpha voice sends the order rushing through me. I know with certainty that I will throw out all of my blockers and false scents the moment we're untied. I have no choice. Because my alpha mate told me to. Using his alpha voice. Mate.

I attempt to conceal my shaking with a long drag. The nicotine calms me enough to clear my thoughts.

My body belongs to the man currently tied to me. But there's a deeper part of me that's stretching a connection to something (someone?) far distant. That mating bit awoke a far stronger bond than the one attaching me to Soulless.

*

I blow smoke up at the sky. "Castiel, angel of the Lord. I found this book at Bobby's you might want. It talks about where to find the Spear of Destiny." I wave the tome in question.

It's snatched out of the air as Cas materializes. "Hello, Dean," he murmurs, not bothering to look at me as he flips rapidly through the volume. A second later, he disappears.

"Wait!" I call too late. It took two and a half days of constant research to locate information that might convince my best friend (is he still?) to come talk to me and he's here for less than a minute. Typical angel douche behavior. Thought Cas was better than the rest of them. I lean against one of the junked cars, light a new smoke from the butt of the last before flicking it away.

"I had to rebuild your lungs from scratch when I pulled you from perdition because you'd damaged them so much." Cas squints angrily up at me from well within my personal space. "I will not always be around to heal you."

I stumble away from him. "Warn a guy, will you?" I gasp.

He cocks his head, blinks. "The Spear is located in a warded bunker in Kansas. I cannot get to it."

"Oh," I say. "Sorry. Listen, Cas . . . ."

The angel sniffs the air. "You mated? To Sam? He doesn't have a soul--why would you do that?"

I rub my face with the hand not holding a cancer stick. "I . . . . That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about. It feels like I'm bonded to two different people. Is it because he's soulless?"

Cas nods. "Yes. A mating joins both body and soul. They are not supposed to be separate."

My eyes widen with hope. Does this mean what I think it means? "But I thought bonds break when someone dies. Even if the soul doesn't go anywhere. A ghost or whatever."

"But Sam never died." Cas touches the shoulder that once bore his handprint, flies away.

I'm mated to my real brother.

Now I'm even more motivated to get him out of Hell.

*

Death pulls me aside. I shudder at the feel of his icy grip. "Dean, there's one more thing," he warns me.

I rub the coldness from my arm. "Yeah, what is it?"

He coolly raises his eyebrows, his body language somehow giving me the disturbing impression that he is far larger than me instead of several inches shorter. "Sam will not remember anything." He rubs his neck pointedly. On the exact spot where a mating bite decorates mine. "And you must not remind him."

I swallow. "I won't."

*

Sam tests the ropes binding him to the cot in Bobby's panic room. "You can't do this, Dean!" He screams at me, calls me a murderer. After all, he will cease to exist once Sam's soul is returned to his body. "You can't let him do this." Panic-stricken eyes meet mine with a sudden determination. "I'm your mate!"

I lean forward, speak very deliberately. "Sammy is my mate."


	5. Discovery

Sam's POV:

2003

Someone's been in my dorm.

Granted, there's been a whole stream of often unsavory individuals traipsing through our room since Brady's personality change last semester. Makes the place so rank, so uncomfortable that it no longer feels remotely homelike (even for someone who grew up in dingy motel rooms). In fact, I've already decided to convince Jess to move off campus with me next year. 

This scent, though . . .

Generic alpha musk. Beer. Tobacco. Sweet undertone. 

There is only one person I know who smells like that.

I had no idea my brother was in the area.

*

I find him outside, leaning against the building, eyes shut, savoring the final puffs of his smoke. Green eyes open at my approach, twinkle. "Hey, Sammy."

I frown. "It's Sam." When will he learn I'm no longer a child? "What brings you to California?"

He straightens in a slow, fluid movement. "Vengeful spirit in Sacramento." He shrugs. "Had to pop in to see my baby brother." A grin, followed by a wink.

I blink, swallow. I've never been attracted to alphas (or to male betas, like the one I've sometimes suspected Dean of being during my less charitable moments) and certainly not to my brother, but if you combined those beautiful features with the sweet scent of an omega unrelated to me, I would be very tempted to invite him to my room. If I didn't have a girlfriend.

I clear my throat. "So, what do you want to do? There aren't a lot of those diners you like around here, but I'm sure we could find someplace to get you a greasy burger."

Dean bites his lip as his eyebrows draw together. "I thought you liked those diners, too."

I sigh. "Look, Dean . . . ."

His eyes flash, green brightening to an almost golden shade. "Are you going to also tell me you hated learning to drive the Impala and target practice and saving hot omegas and" he sidles closer to me "sharing a beer on top of the car?"

"Okay, you're right." I rub my forehead. "Not everything about our childhood was terrible."

He mouths "terrible", eyes wide, almost shell-shocked.

I sweep my bangs off my face. "But, Dean, you do know there was a reason why I left?"

A forced smile. "I get it. You still resent the way Dad raised us."

"Well . . . ." Cockroach-infested motels, a different school every month, constantly feeling lonely and unsafe, worn-out clothes that pegged me as different, bullying that didn't let up until I presented as alpha. Yeah, I resent that upbringing.

"Well, I won't stick around to remind you of your 'terrible' family." He stalks away.

"Wait. Dean!" I run after him.

He ignores me, hops into the rusted-out Ford he must have jacked to drive here, zooms away.

I don't see him for two years.

2011

I'm quite certain I look as ridiculous as I feel in this cowboy get-up Dean picked out for me to wear for our trip to the past. I'm not even convinced it's necessary. Do we really need to blend in to snag some phoenix ash? This assumes these silly costumes are even actually period accurate. Moreover . . . .

Dean is gaping at me. Mouth open, eyes round, hands limp, feet shuffling. And I must be imagining the sugary spike to his scent, the gold shimmer in his eyes. Or maybe I'm not imagining anything. I don't know. I still can't get past the idea that my larger-than-life, ultra-alpha big brother is an omega.

Such an inexplicably, frustratingly enticing omega. That scent that migrates from one pie flavor to another depending on his mood. Those long, thick, black lashes framing those stunning eyes. Gorgeous cheekbones. Invitingly full lips. Shapely thighs. And, don't get me started on the lovely curve of his . . . .

My knot is swelling.

Why is this happening?

Any mild attraction brought on by my brother's newly unhidden status should have worn off months ago. His appearance and personality are the same as they were before my dive into Hell. I shouldn't find him so maddeningly sexy. More than that, the appeal he holds for me shouldn't be growing into a need--to touch him, hold him, kiss him, press deep into his warm body.

That thought did not help calm my knot. Or the lusty pheromones I'm starting to exude.

I hear a gulp. Then a slam. Sure enough, I look up to find Dean gone from the house.

*

Dean lounges on the hood of the Impala, lit cigarette in his mouth as he slides his lighter back into his pocket.

Why anyone who successfully quit smoking would take it up again is a mystery to me. When I asked Dean about it, all he said was "You were gone." Further queries only led to a furious reminder not to "scratch the wall." Followed by more smoking and a significant uptake in drinking.

What's clear is that his renewed addiction is my fault. Somehow or other.

I pause near the car. "May I . . . ?"

He nods, scoots over. I hop up, settle beside him.

Silence reigns for a few minutes, long enough for Dean to finish his cig and light another one, smirking at my outraged huff. "So," he comments through curlicues of pale smoke, "Looks like I got the right size."

I glower down at my western wear. "It's a little tight across my shoulders."

"Yeah," he whispers, rubbing his neck. A shift of his weight releases the scent of lemon meringue.

I shiver even though it's warm.

Dean lifts his smoke to his mouth with a shaking hand, inhales deeply.

I suppress a sudden urge to snatch the harmful cancer stick, fling it as far from my brother as I can manage. My protective instincts have been going haywire since my return. I want to stop Dean from self-destructive behaviors like smoking, heavy drinking, a diet consisting mainly of grease and sugar. I want to growl at any alpha who looks his way. I want to stand between him and the monsters we hunt.

I've been staring at him for a full minute.

"What?" he asks impatiently, irritably.

I answer with a small, non-revealing aspect of my thoughts. "I know they're your lungs, but have you considered, maybe, quitting?"

A sigh, a low murmur. "I know I need to." Determined green eyes look up straight into mine. "I will." He glances away, whispers, "I promise, alpha."

2012

I press my thumbnail into my palm until a bead of blood wells up, causing me to hiss in pain as Lucifer's image fades out of the cabin's cluttered living room. Dean looks up at the sound, pausing in the act of refilling Bobby's flask, fingers twitching from nicotine withdrawal. He notices my bleeding hand, nods to himself, frowns, returns to his task.

I clear my throat, squeeze my knee. "Dean," I begin, "You know that I remember everything now, right?"

He stiffens, takes a slug straight from the whiskey bottle. "How could I forget when your Hell memories are literally driving you insane?" He slams a fist onto the table.

I flinch. "Yes. That too. But." I take a breath. "How can you stand to be around me?"

Dean pauses from wiping up the whiskey that splashed out when he hit the table. "I'm just glad you're you again, man." His eyes drop to my hand, flit away. "Mostly."

"Dean, I . . . he ra--" I can't bring myself to say the word. "He forced you. He claimed you against your will." A shuddering breath, almost a sob. "I don't understand why you still want me around." A thought hits me. "Is it because of the mating?--Because there are ways breaking the bonds. It would be painful, but we could do it."

"NO!" Dean leaps to his feet, knocking over the table, marches over to where I'm sitting on the couch. I hunch my shoulders, lean away. He responds by bracketing me, hands grasping the couch back behind me. "Okay, first," he says, now that he most definitely has my attention, "that wasn't rape. If you have all your memories, you should remember that I wanted it."

"But . . . ."

He silences me with a finger to my lips. "I still want it. That's second." He climbs onto my lap, straddles my legs. "And so do you." My jeans grow tight in confirmation. He continues, " I've seen the way you look at me. I've smelled how much you want me. I've seen your knot grow when you're around me." He taps the, well, growing bulge beneath him. "And I'm done waiting for you to make a move." No alpha could growl as deeply, as full of wicked promise.

I pull his face to mine, slam our lips together.

He kisses back, moans, slides his body against mine. All logic flees from me at the feel of those lithe muscles. I throw him onto his back, tear off his clothes, rip at my own. He claws my back, circles my hips with his strong legs, presses against me so tightly that his slick dampens my skin. 

"Alpha," a wrecked voice whimpers into my ear. "Alpha, please."

I comply, glide into his hot, moist channel. The pleasure is star-bursting. But it's the sense of completeness, of rightness, of coming home that has my knot swelling, tying us together far sooner than I would have liked. (My omega is also my big brother: I wanted to impress him with my prowess). Doesn't matter. He sighs blissfully beneath me, having come just as my knot started to catch.

I gaze down into contented green-gold eyes. "I never expected this to happen, but I'm so glad it did. It feels right, like it's meant to be." I trace the contours of his stunning face.

He smiles up at me. "Of course, it's meant to be. We're soulmates." He pushes lightly against my chest. "Now get your hulking alpha weight off me. You're heavy."

I laugh, roll us onto our sides.

Hard to believe that so wondrous, so joyful, so perfect an eventuality came about because of the actions of my soulless body.


End file.
